Bedding The Baron (12 page)

His mouth shifted to plant hot, damp kisses down the curve of her neck. Portia readily tilted back her head, her heart thundering and her breath coming in small gasps as Fredrick tucked her more firmly between his spread legs and rocked the length of his arousal against her.

A moan was wrenched from her throat as a frustrated need speared through her lower body. She wanted to be far away from the garden. Far away from the inn with its prying eyes.

Someplace where she could be utterly alone with this beautiful man.

It was the sound of a carriage entering the yard that managed to recall Fredrick to the fact they were standing within easy sight of the inn. With a low groan, he reluctantly lifted his head to regard her with dazed eyes.

“Bloody hell,” he at last breathed, his voice unsteady as he lowered his arms and stepped from her. “I never thought to say this, but I fear I am not at all trustworthy to be alone with you on this night.”

Still caught in the throes of passion she swayed toward him. “Fredrick?”

“No, poppet.” He wrapped his arms around his chest, as if he were waging a war within himself. “The brandy has stolen more than my wits, and I am not certain I possess the power to halt myself from taking more than you wish to offer. You should return to the inn.”

Portia bit back the urge to protest that in this moment there was nothing that he could take that she would not willingly offer.

If she did give herself to him it would not be when he was aching from the pain of his bitter youth and befuddled with strong spirits.

The man was just foolish enough to awaken in the morning and presume it had been nothing more than sympathy that had led to her capitulation. That she would not allow.

Stepping back she wrapped the cloak more tightly about her shivering body.

“Will you be well?” she demanded, disliking the thought of leaving him alone with his haunting memories.

As if he could not halt himself, Fredrick reached out to lightly touch her hair, his expression impossible to read in the shadows.

“Do not fret, poppet, I intend nothing more than to wallow for a while longer in my self-pity before seeking my bed,” he said wryly. “In the morning I shall have returned to my interfering, arrogant, annoying self.”

A smile twitched at her lips. “Along with a painfully thick head.”

“No doubt.” With obvious care, Fredrick leaned down to brush his lips over her forehead. “Run along, poppet, before my good intentions disappear entirely.”

It took far more effort than it should have for Portia to turn about and make her way through the dark garden. She desperately wanted to remain and offer him the comfort that he needed. Thankfully, she possessed enough wits to realize that if she lingered comfort was not all she would be offering.

Entering the bustling kitchen, Portia ignored the raised brows and hidden smiles from her staff.

She knew that she looked flushed and mussed and thoroughly kissed.

Even worse, she knew that she looked as if she had
enjoyed
being thoroughly kissed.

With an inward shrug she slipped off her cloak and headed toward the front of the inn. Despite her distraction with Mr. Fredrick Smith, there were guests arriving.

Business was business, she reminded herself sternly.

Portia’s prediction of a thick-head proved all too accurate when Fredrick awoke the next morning.

A thick-head that was not improved by the crack to his skull that had not yet fully healed.

Cursing his stupidity, Fredrick resisted the urge to linger in his bed and made his way down to the public rooms for an early cup of tea.

Dash it all, he never drank to excess. At least not since his younger years when Ian and Raoul would occasionally lure him into Dunnington’s attics to share a bottle of blue ruin.

Of course, his day had been the sort to drive any gentleman to drink, he acknowledged wryly.

And perhaps he had needed a few hours to adjust to the revelations that Macky had revealed. His only true regret was that he had held a warm and willing Portia in his arms and had been forced to send her away.

With a sigh, Fredrick reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his small notebook.

He had wasted yet another day without being one step closer to completing his task in Wessex.

Today he was determined to accomplish something, anything.

The question was where to begin.

There were perhaps a few in the neighborhood that might have some knowledge of his father’s past. But would any of them be willing to reveal any sordid secrets?

And more importantly, could he be certain that his father’s secret sin had occurred while he lived here?

After all, Dunnington had managed to uncover the truth. And there was no indication that the tutor had ever been near Oak Manor. God knew that if he had ever resided in the neighborhood Macky would have full and complete knowledge of him. The taproom gossip flowed with the same liberal excess as the ale, and even the most obscure resident would have been fully debated and dissected by the locals.

Perhaps it was time that he turned his attention to Winchester, he told himself, scribbling notes on the paper. He might not have much information to discover where his father had lived while he was in the city, but he was well enough acquainted with Dunnington to know precisely where to begin.

If his beloved tutor had one weakness it was for books. The tutor could not possibly have lived anywhere without having haunted every bookstore and circulating library in the area.

Pleased to have at least decided on a direction to continue his search, Fredrick abruptly stilled as a tingle of pleasure spread over his skin.

There was only one thing, or rather one person, who could make his entire body shiver with awareness by simply entering the room.

Lifting his head he watched as Portia moved in his direction, a glass of some mysterious substance in her hand.

He hid a smile at the God-awful beige gown that hung loosely on her slender form. He could only suppose that her tender heart had led her to hire a blind dressmaker.

Nothing that ugly could have been deliberately created.

Of course, the hideous gown could not disguise the luminous beauty that shimmered in the early morning sunlight. His heart slammed against his chest as the world melted away to leave only the sight of pale, delicate features and cobalt eyes.

He might not yet be utterly certain that this was the woman of his dreams, but he could not deny that he had never before been so wholly captivated.

Rising to his feet, Fredrick gave a shallow bow as she halted at his table.

“Good morning, Portia,” he murmured, his voice soft enough it would not travel to the handful of guests scattered about the various tables.

“Good morning.” Her expression was carefully composed as if aware of watching eyes, but there was a warmth in her gaze that eased his lingering fear he might have frightened her with his stark hunger in the garden. “I am surprised to discover you up and about at such an early hour.”

Fredrick grimaced, knowing his lingering pain was etched on his wan countenance. “I did consider nursing a sore head in the hopes you might take pity upon me and bring a tray to my room.”

“Actually, I have indeed chosen to take pity upon you.”

“Ah.” He allowed his gaze to slide to her soft lips. “Shall I return to my rooms?”

The faintest hint of color touched her cheeks as she thrust the glass she was holding into his hand.

“Only if you wish to enjoy Mrs. Cornell’s cure in privacy.”

“Cure?” Fredrick tentatively sniffed at the strange brown brew. “Good God, it smells vile.”

“No matter what the smell, I assure you that it will ease your aches,” she said.

“If I am forced to drink this swill then the least you can do is have a seat and keep me company,” he cunningly negotiated. He would drink a dose of arsenic to have a few moments with this woman. “I might very well need someone to bury my remains.”

She gave a sniff at his teasing, but with a brisk motion she took her seat opposite the table.

“I will have you know that Mrs. Cornell’s potions and ointments are renowned throughout the county.”

Fredrick took his own seat as he studied the disgusting mixture. “Really? Perhaps I should speak with her about bottling them,” he murmured before forcing himself to take a swallow of the potion. A shudder wracked his body, his stomach revolting at the disgusting concoction. Christ. It was worse than drinking sludge. “Then again, perhaps not,” he groaned. “No matter how effective they might be, I do not believe that many will be eager to lay down good coin to drink something that tastes as if it came from the gutter.”

“I shall expect a full apology once you begin feeling better,” she informed him, indifferent to his battle to keep from casting up his accounts. Callous wench.

Ah, well. It was no less than he deserved after becoming bosky in her garden.

“Actually, you shall have my apology long before I begin to feel better,” he said softly.

Her brows lifted in confusion. “And why is that?”

“I was not at my finest last eve—”

“No, Fredrick, do not apologize,” she interrupted with that edge of command in her voice. “There is no need.”

Fredrick resisted the urge to snap a salute. “At least allow me to assure you that I am not a gentleman who makes a habit of being deep in his cups.”

“I did not believe that you were.” With an obvious attempt to change the subject, Portia pointed a finger toward the notebook still clutched in his hand. “What are you working upon?”

With practiced ease, Fredrick flipped through the pages to tug out a sheet that was covered with a series of sketches. Placing the sheet on the table he covertly slipped his notebook back into the pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket.

He was not yet prepared to share his reasons for being in Wessex. Not until he knew something more of his father’s secret.

“Actually, I have a few notions that I believe you might be interested in,” he said.

Studying the paper, Portia sent him a narrowed gaze. “What on earth is this?”

“A series of block and tackle pulleys.” A smile touched Fredrick’s lips. “They would be a vast improvement over those you currently use.”

She rolled her beautiful eyes even as a reluctant laugh tumbled from her lips.

“You truly are impossible.”

Fredrick shrugged. “I do try.”

A silence descended as Portia studied him with a searching gaze. “Why are you here, Fredrick?”

Caught off-guard by the abrupt question, Fredrick slowly lowered his gaze to study the worn wood of the table. He would not deliberately lie to Portia. Not when he sensed she had been deceived and manipulated by men her entire life.

“I have business in the area,” he murmured evasively.

“What sort of business?”

“I am . . .” He slowly lifted his gaze to encounter her frown. “Seeking information.”

“You are being remarkably mysterious.”

“My business demands secrecy.” That at least was the absolute truth. He had learned early in his career that there were any number of unscrupulous cads among both inventors and investors. “You would be shocked by those who are willing to pay a small fortune to discover what I am currently working upon.”

She gave a choked sound, as if she were attempting to swallow an impetuous laugh.

“You believe that there are people who spy upon you?”

“Do not laugh, it is not at all unusual.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I devoted the past month to seeking out which of my staff had been bribed to steal information on our design for a nail-making machine for a competitor.”

Her smile faded, as if she sensed the distress it had caused him to discover that a man he had trusted for the past three years was no more than a traitor.

“How horrible.”

Fredrick shrugged. He had already come to terms with Richardson’s betrayal. The young man was not the first to have sold his soul for a few pounds, and he would not be the last.

“The price of investing in dreams, I suppose,” he admitted wryly.

“Dreams?” she murmured. “Is that how you think of your business?”

“It was my father who suggested it first, but it does seem to describe my career well enough,” he admitted.

Rising to her feet, Portia regarded him with a mysterious smile.

“Actually I think it describes
you
well enough, Fredrick.”

Before he could demand an explanation for her odd words, Portia had turned and was threading her way through the tables.

Fredrick leaned back in his chair as he watched her retreat.

What had been in that Madonna smile?

A possibility? A promise? Dare he hope an . . . invitation?

Fredrick rose to his feet, suddenly realizing the throbbing in his sorely abused head disappeared.

It could, of course, be proof that Mrs. Cornell’s ghastly potion did indeed possess healing ingredients. It was believed by many that the nastier the taste of a medicine the better it worked. And he could not imagine anything that tasted any worse than the brown sludge.